


All You Have Is Your Fire

by alyse



Category: Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters (2013)
Genre: F/M, Fight Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Movie(s), Sibling Incest, Yuletide 2014, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 08:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2844209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyse/pseuds/alyse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Let's burn the whole fucking house down," he says, and Gretel smiles again, that small grim one that means business.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	All You Have Is Your Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shrala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrala/gifts).



> Written as a treat for Shrala, who seems to love the same things about this movie as I do, and who wanted rough and dirty, adrenaline fuelled post fight sex. Which is my jam.
> 
> Title and lyrics from _Arsonist's Lullaby_ by Hozier.

-o-

_All you have is your fire...  
And the place you need to reach -  
Don't you ever tame your demons  
But always keep them on a leash_

-o-

The witch is screaming as she hits the wall, and the sound is piercing, drilling into Hansel's aching head. There's no magic in it - she's long since given up hurling spells in his direction now that she knows they don't work - but something that loud? That hideous? Got to be something supernaturally evil behind it.

He has a mouthful of blood, some of which is actually his, and it tastes as foul as he expected. His head isn't the only part of him that hurts - she's kicked and punched, scratched and bitten, thrown blows as well as spells, and still this bitch just isn't going down.

Sometimes, Hansel thinks grimly, he wonders whether he shouldn't have picked a different career. Blacksmithing sounds good around now, or even fucking farming.

Only, he was never really cut out to be a farmer, was he?

He parries the witch's next blow, wincing as her nails dig into his flesh again, leaving white hot, burning ribbons of pain as they tear away again. This time he manages to put enough distance between them to catch her next rush at him with his foot, kicking her backwards so that she slams into the fireplace and hangs there for a moment, stunned.

Hansel takes that moment to spit, grimacing as his ribs protest, and then spits again. His head is spinning, and his belly burns. There isn't a single part of him that doesn't hurt, and the fight is far from over.

This bitch just isn't going down.

"Gretel?" he bellows, because the last time he saw his sister she'd been flying over the shattered table and he'd expected her to be back in the fight by now. "Where the fuck are you?"

She doesn't answer in words, but he's not surprised when she suddenly reappears, blood on her face and her lips curled back in a snarl, and hurls herself back into the fight.

She always does manage to pick her timing.

She's vicious - far more vicious than Hansel. He's just trying to get out of this whole thing alive, but Gretel? Oh, Gretel is determined to take this bitch apart, with her bare hands and teeth if necessary. She's screaming herself now, something full-bodied with rage, and Hansel keeps a safe distance, letting her do her thing while still watching her back.

Gretel's knife dances, weaving as she strikes blow after blow, each one parried by the witch. But the bitch is tiring; Gretel slips under her guard, drawing blood before the witch catches her in the face and retreats as Gretel reels.

That's Hansel's cue. His blood is up, his own snarl pinned firmly in place as he attacks and Gretel retreats until it becomes a dance of their own, one in which the witch is simply a pivot point. He kicks, Gretel punches. Gretel stabs, he grabs and tries to hold something as slippery as a snake and just as venomous.

It gives Gretel the time she needs, though. She's poetry in motion as she slides under the witch's guard, again, this time slamming the knife home and twisting.

It's like gutting a fish; the witch flails and flops, dark blood spewing from her mouth and coating Gretel's shirt. Gretel's expression is caught between grim and gleeful, her dark eyes glittering and triumphant, and her mouth curled up in a bitter smile. 

The witch breathes her last, the air rattling out of her and her feet kicking helplessly in the air. She goes limp in Hansel's hands, but he doesn't let go. Not yet. It won't be the first time something like this has played for time by playing dead.

Gretel watches, her eyes fixed on the witch's face. Her lip is split, leaving her mouth red and shiny, and Hansel knows, just knows, that if he leans in, licks the blood from Gretel's mouth, it will finally take the foul taste out of his own.

He's tempted, but Gretel seems finally satisfied, stepping back and letting the witch's body slide from her blade with a slow, meaty liquid sound.

Hansel lets go and the witch falls to the floor, thudding hollowly. There's no mistaking that sound; it's the sound of meat, of something empty and vacated. It's the sound of death.

Thank fucking God.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, spitting again for good measure. It doesn't help much, but even a little is better than nothing.

"Let's burn her," Gretel says, and he grunts, not looking forward to building a pyre, not for one such as this. There are three sets of grieving parents in the nearest village, and God knows how many before them. Bitch doesn't deserve the effort.

"Let's burn the whole fucking house down," he says, and Gretel smiles again, that small grim one that means business.

He has no fucking idea what it says about him that he loves that smile, and that look, almost as much as her happy ones.

The witch has brews, acrid and alcoholic, and dark oils that will burn just fine. Gretel splashes the wooden walls with them, but Hansel throws the bottles at the wall, not caring about the smash or the flying glass. Witches' brews can't hurt them, like witches' spells, and a glass cut would be one of his cleaner scars.

The sound is satisfying, but even more so is the muffled _whoomph_ when Gretel throws the match and the whole building goes up in flames. Hansel is close enough to feel the heat on his face, for it to redden his skin and ruffle his hair. There's something cleansing about it, something crisp and sharp to burn away the stench of corruption.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and he hopes the bitch is burning in hell or - even better - choking on Satan's cock.

Gretel's already heading towards the brook when he turns to look at her, trailing blood-splattered clothing in her wake. She heads upstream, where the water hasn't been poisoned by the witch's presence and still runs clean and clear. Hansel follows her, as he always follows her, picking up her discarded clothing and hoping that the water will finally wash the taste out of his mouth

It doesn't, but the press of Gretel's mouth against his, the feel of her wet, lithe body pressed against his, finally does.

She's impatient and eager, the way she always is after a fight, as though the thought of losing him leaves her hungry for confirmation that both of them are still breathing. He can't blame her for that; the same hunger, need to know she's there, that she's safe, is building in him, growing and growing with each one of her desperate, painful kisses.

She takes no prisoners - she never has, and Hansel is no exception. The blood he tastes in his mouth now is his: iron not acrid, full of love and desperation, not hate and despair. She licks at his lip where she's split it, her teeth fastening in his flesh hard enough to make him wince, his fingers tightening on her hips, leaving bruises.

She growls against his mouth, her fingers sinking into his hair and dragging his head back. She nips at his neck, sharp teeth and agile tongue, her fingers now tugging at his laces, tearing at his shirt.

It's probably beyond repair anyway - he lets her rip it from his body, her fingers coming back, hard and harsh, calluses against his skin. He slides his fingers up her spine but she's not in the mood for caresses or kindnesses; she bites at his breast, the sudden, sharp pain leaving Hansel twisting and swearing.

It's good. Too good, but this is them. Rough and ready, all hard angles, aching need. There's little soft about his Gretel, and little about him that isn't ultimately about her. He gives her what she wants, hands it over gladly as she strips off his breeches and then her own, her small, tight breasts filling his hands as she sinks down onto his length. She presses her hands against the backs of his, pushing her nipples against his palms, rolling her hips as she rides him, focused on her own pleasure and uncompromising about it.

God, he loves her like this, loves her fully and sinfully. He loves the feel of her, tight around his dick; her heat, her passion, the fact that she is his and that no one else will ever have her this way. He worships her body with his mouth and hands, worships at the altar of Gretel, and yeah, he's going to hell but he can't care, won't care if he can have this.

His Gretel above him, one hand bracing herself against his chest, the other still clutching his hand, pressing it against her breast. He squeezes her breast roughly, feeling the shudder that runs through her, the way she gasps, the pleasured tension in the curve of her neck. She's close, he can feel it - she burns hot and fierce like the fire behind them, consuming everything in her path. 

Including him.

She's close and, as always, he's right behind her, making sure she gets the rest of the way.

He tears his hand from her grasp, settling his palm on the back of her neck and pulling her down into a kiss. It's brutal, all hard lips and sharp teeth, and he tastes blood again, hers and his. His other hand settles at the base of her spine, holding her against him as he thrusts up into her, fast and fierce, harsh and uncontrolled.

She's close, so close, her breath panting into his mouth, her fingers curled claws against his skin. He'll bear her marks tomorrow - the scratches and the bites carved into his skin - and she'll have bruises that echo them, all of them saying the same thing. He is hers and she is his and nothing - no witches, no villagers, no soul, living or dead - will come between them.

There's nothing between them now, nothing but the rising heat, nothing but Gretel's skin pressed against his, the coarse hairs around his dick giving her the friction she needs.

Her spine arches, curving under his hand, and her fingers dig in, holding him tight. She falls, her body tensing around him, ripples running through her cunt, and as always he catches her. Catches her and follows in her heels.

She slumps against him once she's found her release, her face pressed into his neck as he fucks up into her, his own pleasure a breath away.

"Hansel," she murmurs against his skin. "My Hansel," and that's all it takes for him to come, emptying into her as he holds her so closely it's almost as though they are one.

She washes in the brook afterwards as he lounges on the bank, washes his come from her thighs as she stares back over his head to the fire that's still burning, dying down into embers. There's a thoughtful frown on her face, and he knows she's thinking about their next job, the next witch they'll kill.

"There's a place called Augsberg," he says, catching her attention as he scratches absently at his chest. "I hear they have a problem with missing children."

"How many?"

"Ten at the last count."

She snorts, her fingers now busy with untangling her hair. She'll give up in a moment, let him run his fingers through it to sort out the snarls while she relaxes against him, as close to kitten-like as she ever gets.

"And they waited until now to call us?"

He shrugs. "Interested?"

Her smile is grim again, something dark and dangerous in it, and his cock gives a treacherous little twitch.

"Of course."

Of course she is, and where she goes he follows, like night after day.

Like Hansel after Gretel. 

Always.

The end


End file.
